Sedation
by jessa-beth
Summary: The second to last part in my short "Stimulus" series. John loves Sherlock more than anything. All he wants is for him to know it. It's funny, isn't it, how there never seems to be enough time? Reichenbach Fall spoilers. M John/Sherlock
1. Liberty

_This is (as far as I know) the last part story in my short 'Stimulus' series.  
>Sex is prominent here, so don't read if you don't like that kind of thing.<br>Beware of sadness in chapter two, guys.  
>Also beware of "The Reichenbach Fall" spoilers! <em>

**Part 1**

Months had passed since my first sexual experience with my flat mate. It had become very regular for us to shag like ferocious rabbits between cases. We would spend entire days shagging sometimes, when no mysteries arose to my poor bored friend. Things were fairly good for us, but my heart felt colder and heavier with every passing day. You see-the fact remained that I loved him and he, my dear friend, believed love was a disadvantage. It seemed an impossible thing for him to ever feel, so I was hopeless. The occasion I document this time was shortly after we completed the case of Baskerville a week before. On this particular day I have come to mention, my best friend, the genius Sherlock Holmes, had been locked up again.

It was with a heavy feeling in my gut that I bailed him out. The insolent consulting detective had spoken back to an extremely unhappy policeman. The enraged officer motioned to strike Sherlock, and in his own defense, Sherlock punched the man out cold. His partner took him in to the station, and imprisoned him. He was there for hours before I was allowed to post bail. It was all I could do not to hit the offending officer on our way out like Sherlock had done. As we passed by the bastards, I grabbed Sherlock's hand protectively without thinking. I marched him out of there with my fingers clasped around his palm, huffing like a furious, disappointed father about to scold their son for misdeeds.

"What bastards," I spat as we entered into the cool night atmosphere outside the police house. "I can't believe them."

Sherlock shrugged unconcernedly. "They are police officers," he said coldly. "It is their job to see that everyone kisses their arses and submits to them." He sniffed, and I could see annoyance flicker momentarily over his stoic expression. "It could never occur to their tiny little brains that anyone might not give them the power they feel they are entitled to. I submit to no one."

I nodded vigorously in agreement, expressing the feelings I knew my flat mate would never show. Sometimes I thought I felt things doubly for the both of us, as though my heart channeled what the sociopathic sleuth could not hold. "Damn right," I said fervently. "But Sherlock, you did not have to hit the man."

"He was about to hit me!" Sherlock protested defensively.

I laughed. "Maybe you should have let him!"

"Why would I do a thing like that?" He adjusted his suit jacket, and turned the collar up on his overcoat. He was so stunning that I almost forgot myself.

"What did you say to him, anyway?"

Sherlock's lips twitched. "I merely pointed out to him that his wife was clearly shagging his partner."

My jaw dropped. "Sherlock, you didn't!"

"Certainly, I did," he said, looking at me as though I was being absurd. "He should know a thing like that. I, for one, couldn't stand the idea of another person shagging _you_." The comment was so offhand that I almost didn't catch it. "Anyway, I told those officers I knew Detective Inspector Lestrade, but they did not seem to care. They were most certainly the ones out of bounds, and not I."

"Wait." I stopped walking. He turned to look at me, his long coat swishing around his lean body as he did. "What was that you said? About... other people shagging me?"

Sherlock blinked his colorless eyes slowly, trapping my gaze. He glared a little. "What about it?"

"I mean... you do know that I still date girls, don't you?"

"Yes, of course I know, John. It is clear you have come to think me stupid, for even a fool could see that although you are dating, you are certainly not receiving any sexual gratification from these dates. It is blatant enough." He said this all very fast.

I swallowed uncomfortably. "Er..." Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes in the way they always made me feel inferior to him. "So..." I continued. "You wouldn't want me shagging anybody else, is that right?" I narrowed my eyes at him, contemplating this.

Sherlock glanced upward as though he was looking into his own mind. "Hm, well, John, I do believe it would make me unhappy, yes." I felt my love for my friend flutter violently against my heart like a great bird trapped in my chest. It hurt. My emotions felt like they were swelling. I sighed. "I mean, isn't that what people do when they become involved physically? They wish the other to be only theirs?"

"Well, I am," I said, without thinking.

"What?"

"What?"

"What you just said."

"And what did I say?"

"You said 'Well, I am.' What did that mean?"

"Nothing."

"'Well I am' _what_?"

"_Yours_!" I suddenly cried. Sherlock looked stunned at my feverish interjection. I started walking again, but my friend seemed glued to the pavement where he stood. I had my hands in my jacket pockets. I felt a shadow creeping over my heart. I could not believe I just told him that. My mind was racing. My pulse was rushing. It was a mistake, a terrible mistake. He would never want me again; I was sure of it. I stomped away from him for what felt like a very long time, but it couldn't have been more than a few seconds.

Quite out of nowhere, my upper arm was grabbed from behind. I was spun around to meet Sherlock, who looked distressed. His mouth was slightly open. He didn't seem to know what to say or do. I sighed. "You don't have to say anything, Sherlock," I assured him quietly. "I shouldn't have said that. I don't really know what I meant by it. I'm sorry."

"Oh," he said shortly. He righted his posture and let go of my arm. We started to walk again, our footsteps in sync with one another. We strolled together in silence until Sherlock was able to hail a taxi. It was an uncomfortable ride back to Baker Street. Our conversation seemed to linger over us, breathing down our necks. It was all I could think about. It was hovering in the air between us, so that every time I looked at him, I could sense it waiting for me to mention its existence. But I wouldn't. I don't believe a single word was spoken the whole drive.

When we emerged from the cab to set foot in front of 221b, I tried to clear the air. I didn't like this tension between us. But then, I really couldn't tell whether or not I was the only one feeling the tension, and if Sherlock wasn't simply being his strong quiet self. I coughed. He looked at me. "What are you thinking about, Sherlock?" It felt like such an unnatural question, but my awkwardness seemed to have taken over.

My friend's brow crinkled as he unlocked the door. "You really want to know?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Yeah, why not?"

"Alright then." He opened to door. As we made our way upstairs, he spoke to me over his shoulder. "I am thinking about those policemen, and about what you said. Than I should have given in to them."

I laughed, relief sweeping over me as we entered the flat. "Well, yeah, you should have! When you piss someone off, Sherlock, you should leave them alone, not provoke them more. You're a bit rash, you know. Sometimes I think you need a sedative."

"I need no sedative when I have you. And I do not submit to anyone," He hissed. It made me laugh this time he said it, for I could not stop thinking about the fact that he frequently submits to me. I was his distraction, and when he needed me, I dominated him. I took him over; made him writhe, moan, and beg. He had agreed to being tied up and fucked mercilessly for hours. He had once taken me into his throat over and over again until I could not come anymore, and the whole time I had denied his own gratification until I saw fit to allow it from him. I was the only one who got to enjoy this. He submitted only to me.

"What?" He looked confused.

"What what?"

"You laughed."

"Oh." I wandered into the kitchen, ready to prepare tea. "Well," I said a little tensely, "I was just thinking that you_ do_ submit _some_times."

I glanced up at him from the kettle. He had his eyes narrowed at me, his brow furrowed. Then his face went slack as he figured it out. "Oh," he said calmly. His stark white cheeks actually flushed. I felt my loins stir at the sight of it. I loved making that man react to me physically, even in the slightest ways. He leapt onto his arm chair, sitting on the back of it with his shoes nestled into the seat. He watched me as I boiled the water and prepared the mugs.

I cleared my throat when I had finished and brought the tea to the table between us on a tray. "Y'know you really can't keep doing this," I said.

"Doing what?" Sherlock took his cup between spindly white fingers.

"Getting arrested!" I said. "I am afraid of people seeing you that way."

"Why?"

I shrugged. "I don't know," I said loftily. "I guess I worry about your image, Sherlock. A lot of people know who you are now, and I don't... I don't want people to get the wrong idea about you."

"And what idea is that, exactly?"

"That you're... I don't know... a criminal? Or a bad person?"

"I don't care if anyone thinks I'm bad."

The way he said it turned me on somehow. It was the way he rumbled the final word. "Well," I said offhandedly, "what if _I_ think you're bad?"

He glanced up at me. I wasn't sure he understood that I was just taking the piss, poking fun at his submissive nature with me when we shagged. I shot my friend a crooked smile, hoping he understood and didn't think I was being stupid. The stiff, statuesque man stared at me unblinkingly. I stared back, my eyebrows high, waiting for some sort of response. Finally, after a minute, the sleuth placed his teacup gently on the tray. He rose from his chair with such grace, it looked like he exerted no effort at all when he moved. He was truly awe-inspiring in every way. My heart twanged painfully, but I choked back the feeling. Sherlock came over to me and towered above my chair, casting me in shadow. I gulped. He looked so serious. It made me anxious.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?" My throat felt dry.

The detective took my teacup and saucer from me, and placed it aside for me. He bent so that his face was on my level. He leaned his hands on my armrests on either side of me so that I was caged in. It got me hot. It made me want him. "Does it bother you?" he asked. I cocked my head, taken aback by the vagueness of the question.

"Er... what?"

"Do my submissive desires bother you? Does it bother you that you should dominate me, and have total control over my body? Does it bother you the way I call you 'Sir' when you take me, or the way that I give over all my power to you?" His voice was dangerously low and husky. Something naughty was twinkling behind those magnificent eyes. My groin throbbed.

"No," I said in barely more than a breath.

His gaze bore into me for some time. Then his incredible lips parted gently, and he said: "I am yours, too, you know." My heart was beating so fast and violently, I thought it might break my ribs. My lungs felt punctured. My stomach seemed to be collapsing as I looked at my friend.

"Wha," I whispered on an exhale. My mind had gone blank.

Sherlock sighed. His breath felt warm and nice on my face. "I know that you care about me, John," said the man. "I can deduce it from every motion and word."

"But-"

"I won't pretend to understand," he interrupted. "But I know that you call yourself mine, and that I believe it. I know that when I cannot occupy my mind, you are the only thing I find interesting. I know that I want you desperately when I am not working, and that I am certainly..." -he leaned close to my mouth- "...most humbly yours." He kissed me deeply. I felt my insides melt at the contact. God, he felt good. I wanted his body against mine. That chiseled elegant body. Sometimes when I thought about that body, I got so hard I had to sit and catch my breath for a second. This would have been one of those times, except that I was being eagerly snogged and had absolutely no reason to ignore my suddenly raging erection. No; in fact, my colleague had already reached out to caress the bulge through my trousers. It made me quiver beneath him. This was the first time he had ever taken such initiative. Before this moment, the most dominant my friend had ever been was to order me to shag him, and to make him hurt. Right then, however, his tongue overwhelmed mine and seemed to be tasting me from the inside out. I moaned into his mouth. My organs all felt like they were boiling from the heat of this snog.

He pulled his mouth away suddenly, and I whimpered a little involuntarily. I licked my lips, watching him. He spoke softly then, pecking me delicately and romantically on the mouth between words. "My dear," he began, "I am..." -kiss- "...quite solemnly..." -another kiss- "...yours, John,." He blinked at me deviously. "Will you let yourself be mine tonight?" His twinkling eyes squinted. "Sir," he added as an afterthought, as though the word would help convince me. I needed little convincing, but it really turned me on when he called me 'sir.' I felt powerful, as though I were Sherlock's master, ruler of his body. I guess I was, though. I felt inflated with desire and confidence, so I nodded.

"Yes, Sherlock," I sighed. "Oh, yes, please, Sherlock. I want you. I want you terribly."

"Tonight," my friend cooed in his low rumble, "I want to have you." He looked utterly bewildered by himself, as though the words coming out of his own mouth were foreign to him. "I... want... you." He seemed to be testing out the sound on his tongue.

"Oh, fuck it, just kiss me, Sherlock. I'm all yours, you bastard. You've got me."

Sherlock seemed to falter then. He took my face between his hands, and kissed me. It was a surprisingly soft kiss. It was so sweet. It was all I could do not to shove him back onto the floor and ravage him. Not this time. This time it was his turn. Sherlock was taking control for the first time, and I was excited to see how my friend would act with that responsibility. How might he deal with it? Would he have the motivation for it? As far as I could tell thus far, Sherlock had me dominate him because he needed me to distract him. Would he even be interested if he had to distract himself? Would he get bored? My mind was racing with these thoughts, and Sherlock knew it. "Your mind is wandering," he pointed out.

"Er... yes."

"Why?" He squinted and looked me once over, deducing me. "Oh, I see," he continued before I could open my mouth. "You are afraid that I never actually wanted you to begin with. You feel concern that my sexual attraction to you lies in your ability to control me thereby comforting my mind for a time." He straightened. "Am I right?"

I sighed. "Yes."

"Well stop it," he demanded. I looked up at him incredulously. "Look, John... I look forward to our sessions. I enjoy what you do to me. I enjoy the way you make me feel. And you're my friend, John. My only friend." He avoided my eyes, then. "I do care about you. When we spend this time together... I find myself gladdened by your pleasure. Tonight I want to make you feel as good as you make_ me_ feel, because you are my friend. Because I like to see you happy." My heart sank far into me. My throat caught. I was speechless and numb. I loved him so deeply I didn't know how much longer I could stand not telling him. It was so painful to be this in love with a best friend whom you happen to shag on a regular basis for the upkeep of his sanity. It was so difficult to hold on to my well-being. It was like trying to catch smoke in my hands. Every time my best mate looked at me with those lustful eyes, I unraveled. It had been months of this. I couldn't handle it much longer. But this... this was a new side of Sherlock even more surprising than his submissive sexuality. This was gentle; this was caring; this was almost loving. But I knew better than to fool myself into thinking the sleuth could ever love me. I swallowed back the thoughts, and focused on my friend's lips instead. They were so soft. We kissed deeply. His hands rested on my chest. They were shaking. He was fumbling and hesitant with every touch. Feeling the nervousness radiating off of him, I took his hands in mine as he kissed me. I guided them along my neck and into my hair, and he seemed to understand. He deepened our kiss, and slid his arms around my neck, hugging me close. We were wrapped around each other, quite like ordinary lovers. We snogged in the embrace for fifteen minutes or more-I don't know how long it was, really. It felt like a lifetime; a glorious lifetime of loving tongues dancing with each other. I felt, the whole time, that I might start crying at any second. I was good at resisting my feelings, however. Army training and my years with Sherlock had given me proper practice for the suppression of emotions.

After some time, my dear friend's hands began to wander. His lanky arms slipped away from my head and moved down my torso. His hands reached under my shirt, feeling my skin with his soft fingertips. I shuddered at his caress, and moaned into his fantastic mouth. I felt his breath catch and his groin harden. This was turning him on. I was glad. I was aching for him to touch me all over. Every inch of me was screaming for his body. I undid Sherlock's buttons for him while he enjoyed the touch of my skin. He had stopped kissing me. Now he was just straddling me on the armchair, his hands up my shirt, running them over the length of me. He watched the lump of his hands crawling beneath the fabric of my garment with an expression of mild interest. I made him stop so that I could remove his shirt at last, but as soon as his arms were free again, he returned to touching me softly. His face seemed awed by me. I pulled my shirt off over my head for him, so he didn't need to exert the effort, and allowed him to keep touching me.

This went on for a long time. He looked like a regal statue positioned above me. He was running his palms up and down my abdomen and chest as though he had never seen my body before. I caressed his back gently, scratching lightly to add an element of the roughness he was used to. He was extremely hard. His hips were bucking almost imperceptibly. He was squeezing me with his knees. Some time later, he paused and looked at me questioningly, seeming lost. I pulled him down to me, embracing him closely, burying my nose in his hair and inhaling the smell of my friend the genius. I ran my thumb down his spine, and he moaned. His breath was warm in my ear. My love for him felt overwhelming in that moment; this was just so nice. It hurt.

I kissed his neck, and he groaned at that. He moved off of me, and pulled me to my feet. He removed his trousers, and then did the same for me. Kissing me, he walked me over to the couch upon which we could lie down. He swept me into his arms and lay me back. This was such a strange feeling. With girls, I had always been a caregiving type, and with Sherlock, I have always been so dominant. But now? Now he was tenderly taking me into his power the way I used to do with my girlfriends. I had never felt so comfortable and safe. He nibbled my shoulder awkwardly. I quivered in his grip as he did so, smiling a little at the sweetness of his effort. "John," he purred into the nape of my neck.

The quiet mumble made my heart swell. I clutched the back of his head desperately, loving him with everything I had. "Sherlock." He covered my mouth with his again, our groins now colliding with one another. I became so aroused as we kissed more that I started actually whining against my friend's lips, repeating his name over and over again in my needy state. "Please," I said finally. "I need you." I looked up him as he dragged his swollen lips away from me. His eyes were as cold as ever, but with a hint of some curiosity. I sighed. He would never understand how badly I needed him. Never.

He left for only a minute to retrieve the vaseline I had purchased a couple of months ago (for this purpose specifically). He wet his fingers, and settled himself between my legs on the sofa again. He returned to kissing me, but his lubricated fingers were trailing up my inner thigh. My breathing was very heavy. I had never taken anything there before. I felt concern. My whole body twitched when he caressed my opening, but _goodness_, what a pleasant sensation it was! It certainly hurt as he entered me with those unbelievably long fingers, but they sure knew how to move. I had done this to him so many times, I suppose he had learned by now what felt good and was using that knowledge to his advantage-to please me. And oh, did he please me. He finger-fucked me slowly, deeply. I held my breath for a long time as he went on, stretching me, preparing me for more than his fingers.

"Turn around, John," he said suddenly. I obeyed, keeping my mouth shut. My backside was completely exposed to him. I couldn't even dream of explaining what I was experiencing just then, how vulnerable I felt. A moment later, he was against me, pressing into me. Our moaning synced up as he entered me a little. "Does that hurt you?" he asked. "I know it hurts for me when you first arrive." He grunted huskily, thrusting once to completely sheath himself in my body. I squealed, and bit the back of my arm to stifle my cries of pain. "But I also know that I like it when you hurt me this way." I let out a long breath. "Do you like this, John?" His voice was shockingly soft. He stroked my hair tenderly.

I nodded. "Yes," I breathed.

"Good. Shall I proceed, then?"

Another nod from me. That was all the incentive he needed apparently. His fingers curled themselves into my short hair and he held on tightly. It hurt, but it also sent a thrill of arousal to my groin, which was throbbing. Sherlock began his thrusting, and I could not resist any longer. I shouted his name, crying out, begging for more and begging for the pleasure to never end. My mind felt like it was exploding. For someone who'd gone his whole life _doing_ the shagging, it felt extremely strange to suddenly be the one _getting_ shagged. And what a shag it was. It was rough, but his hands were gentle on my bare back, stroking me delicately, sending chills down my spine. "Oh god, Sherlock," I cried at some point. That was when he reached around and took me in a free hand while he steadied himself with the other one on a cushion. The heat of his body pressed in on me, smothering my senses so that Sherlock Holmes' body was all that mattered. I yelled to the holy father. Feeling him inside me and also upon my erection was just too much. The orgasm racked me in a mighty wave. I would have collapsed, but Sherlock held onto my hips tightly. I fell limp, but not for long. Sherlock continued to fuck me furiously, completely ravaging my body and claiming it. He was mine, and I was his. This was the defining moment. It was like love, if only the man had that capacity.

I came again five minutes later. I had never been revived that quickly before, but I supposed this was an exceptional situation. Being fucked by one's best mate can do funny things to a man's body, especially when in love with said mate. The poor sofa would need a good dry cleaning after this, but we would get to that tomorrow. Tonight, we just shagged endlessly.

It really did seem to go on forever. On and on it went, and it must have been a good hour before my friend finally shuddered around me. I could feel his body's change from the inside out, which was bizarre, but _very_ sexy. He seemed to sizzle within me. He flung his arms around my middle in the moment it happened, and he writhed as he pumped into me. His orgasm was obvious. The man could not contain even an ounce of his usual self-restraint. He thrashed and shouted and nearly suffocated me with his desperate clutching. I loved it all. I loved the feeling of my best friend coming inside me. I reveled in it until it was over.

When it did end at last, he rolled me over, and fell onto my chest. What was this, a post-sex cuddle? We had never done a thing like that, but it felt good. It felt right. He lay on my breastplate, even though it was slick with sweat. It didn't really matter, because his face was drenched anyway. I stroked his hair, which was wet with it. He was panting. The poor fellow had really overwhelmed himself. "Are you okay, Sherlock?" I was a little worried. I always was when he acted so unlike his usual self. Only during the act of sex could I understand it. Otherwise, it concerned me.

He clung to me. He was shaking all over. "I'm fine." His voice was steady, despite his physical failings.

"You don't really look fine," I told him, looking anxious. "You don't seem like yourself."

"I am _fine_, John," he snapped. He pushed himself up and tried to stand on shaking legs. I held him up a little.

"Sherlock, don't push yourself. That was your first time, in a way."

"We've been doing this for months," he corrected me, his cheeks rising in color.

"Well," I said thoughtfully, "it was still your first time on the other side of it."

He was silent.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" I asked cautiously.

"Yes," sighed Sherlock. His eyes glistened. "Did you?" He swallowed hard, looking nervous.

"Yes!" I said earnestly, grabbing his upper arms and shaking him. "Of course I did, you stupid git! How could you think I didn't?"

That was when Sherlock hugged me. We stood in the middle of the sitting room, totally naked, embracing each other for several minutes. It was incredibly intimate, and brought joy and satisfaction to my heart. I wanted to tell him then, that I loved him, but I couldn't get the words out. My tongue didn't seem to work. I opened and closed my mouth a few times, but nothing happened. All that functioned was my sense of smell, which deeply inhaled Sherlock's scent, filing it away to be saved for later. I wanted to remember that smell always.

It was a good thing I did. I was never to have another chance to do so. I should have told him I loved him that night, but how could I have known? How could I have possibly known that we would never be this close again?


	2. In Death

****_The end is here!  
>Tell me what you think!<br>Enjoy, friends! _

**Part 2**

That was the last time we were together, at least sexually. The very last time. It had to be the last time, because my best friend, the incredible Sherlock Holmes, was dead. I am sorry to say that my collection of erotic stories from my relationship with the sleuth ended with that one. I am sorry to say that the gorgeous man I loved died without knowing. He told me he was a fake. He told me "no one could be that clever." I wanted to mention all the things we'd done together, all the intimacy we'd shared, but in my fear, nothing could escape me. My throat was closed except to protest. "No, Sherlock. Don't!" was the last thing I said to him.

"Goodbye, John," were his last words. He lingered on his mobile for a second, and I gazed at him, open-mouthed. I felt sick. "I love you!" my heart screamed, but my voice wouldn't work. Everything had shut down.

And then he fell. It was incredible how fast it was. I thought it would be slower, thought I'd have time to reach him. But there was no time. Our time was lost. Everything was lost. My love was gone. My life was over.

Yet life moves on around the body when its light leaves it. I reached out to him, to feel his pulse. His wrist was warm. His skin was soft. His eyes were still vibrant, but expressionless. Lines of blood marred his stunning face. Hands were grabbing at me, pulling me away. I was shaking. Everything seemed to move by me in a haze. I wanted to slip my hand into his, to hold him, to kiss his white mouth from which a dribble of blood had ebbed. But the hands of strangers kept me away. I was numb. He was my friend, he was my lover, he was my whole world, and I needed him, but no one would let me near his body. He was lifted and wheeled away before my mind had processed any of it. My Sherlock-my love-was rolling away from me. I watched his limp arm, which dangled over the edge of the wheeler, disappear behind crowds of people seeing if I was alright. No, I was not alright, but I couldn't say that. I couldn't say anything. I couldn't feel anything. He never knew I loved him. I had never told him. I closed my eyes, feeling totally helpless and dead inside.

The smell of his hair came to me then. Faint in the arms of strangers, in the middle of a crowded block in front of St. Bart's Hospital, I breathed deeply. I envisioned my friend's smile, and his scent overtook my senses. It gave me a moment's strength, and I forced myself to my feet then, shoving people out of my way. I ran lamely, trying to make my way after the stretcher that had taken my friend from me, but it had gone. It was nowhere. And where was Sherlock? Not gone. He couldn't be. But he was. I had seen his face, seen it lifeless and bloodless, seen his gushing head wound. I wanted to cry. I wanted my life to end.

When something of this magnitude takes place, it seems incredible and impossible, suddenly, how anything could ever happen again. I was in awe of the people walking by. In awe of the trolleys still going and the taxis still picking up passengers. In awe of the fact that my heart still beat, and that it hadn't ceased with that of the infamous Sherlock Holmes. Jesus.

It was real. I was alone. I floated through the next few days like a ghost. Every second, I expected Sherlock to burst through the doors of 221b exclaiming that he had never meant to cause me distress and that, in fact, he was quite alive. But he never did. I was all alone again. In that sodding awful flat, my loneliness felt oppressive. I hated everything. I was angry at the world for taking the only person who'd ever made any difference in my life; for taking the only person I'd ever loved so powerfully. I needed him back. God, I really needed him back.

The day after it happened, I spent all the hours between sunrise and sleep sitting in my armchair, staring at his. I imagined him sitting on it. I waited for his image to appear, for him to start talking to me rapidly, making this deduction or that. I imagined he'd kiss me, bend over my chair like he had done a week ago. I glanced at our sofa. It was clean now, but I remembered what we'd done there fondly. The last time we'd ever touched so intimately. _The last time_.

I held back tears. I would find myself doing that a lot in the months to follow.

Sherlock's funeral was attended by few. Everyone thought the man was a fake, now. They thought he was a psychopathic mastermind who had concocted all his genius to stroke his own ego. They thought he had arranged for all the murders he'd solved. Fury was prominent within me after the death of my friend. I had severe problems with rage. I attacked people violently when they said a word against my old colleague. I was usually in such a blind rage, I never even knew I was doing it. I would suddenly find myself behind bars, and would frequently cry there where no one could see me. Lestrade felt for me. I don't think he really believed that Sherlock was guilty of his supposed crimes. He helped me greatly after his death. He dealt with Sherlock's paperwork, such as his will and all that. Apparently, my friend had left me everything he had. I didn't want it, so it sat in 221b for a long time. Molly Hooper, too, was a great comfort. She seemed more distraught than I was. She didn't cry, but every time she came to visit, she spoke vaguely, as though lost in her own thoughts. She seemed numb, too. I knew she'd fancied him. It didn't bother me. The poor coroner cringed every time Sherlock was mentioned, as though she didn't want reminding of him. When I said I missed him, she flushed, and seemed passionately desperate to change the subject. The poor woman. I felt her grief, though hers was certainly of a very different kind. I had asked her if I could have his coat. That had been her one open moment with me. The question seemed to undo her. She cried fiercely into her palms, wheezing through her heavy sobs that she was afraid she couldn't, for Sherlock had requested to be buried with it. My heart sank, but I understood. I wanted to respect the wishes of my dearest friend; my other half.

It didn't take long for me to move out of the flat I'd shared with Holmes. I did so just to get away from the haunting presence I felt there; just to escape the traumatic loss of my love. But no matter where I moved, that empty feeling followed me everywhere. I hurt wherever I went. It made no difference. Still, I couldn't stay at Baker Street anymore.

I still visit Sherlock's grave once a week, even all these months later. I speak to him as though he can hear me, and sometimes I feel that he can. Once, on the tube on my way to my new flat, I thought I saw him, actually. A very pale, tall man with his face in shadow was standing at the opposite end of the car. There was something deeply familiar about him. I felt a tug in my chest.

I realized then, with a shattering blow, that it could not be him. My friend was dead. No matter where I thought I saw him or thought I felt his presence, it would never be him. Sherlock Holmes was gone forever.

Sherlock Holmes was dead.

_I know it's a sad note to end on after a series all about sex, and I'm sorry for that. I hope it was still bearable. Thanks for reading!_


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